Echoes From a Distant Land (6 page)

‘It is not the camera you used to take my photograph.'

‘No, it is a different one. That was an Eastman Kodak. I could have used the Hess-Ives but I thought a black and white study might be … Oh, would you like to see the photo I took of you?'

Sam's eyes lit up.

Ketterman went around the table to his desk. The enlargement was in a folder and as he slipped it out, he again admired it. The strong lines of Sam's face, his high cheekbones, his square jaw with just a hint of a cleft in his chin. His wide intelligent eyes. The camera had captured them perfectly, but the portrait had an elegance as portrayed in the subtle skin tones, and the afternoon light had softened his body's contours and muscles to give them a grace and beauty that was otherwise concealed by his masculinity.
Sam was not yet a cameraman's assistant, but he was an excellent subject.

Ketterman moved a lamp to the table as he slid the print across. ‘It's quite a good shot, actually,' he said modestly, watching Sam's delight spread across his face.

Finally, Sam looked up from the photograph. ‘It is beautiful,' he said in wonder, then dropped his eyes in embarrassment. ‘I mean, it is a very nice photograph.'

Ketterman laughed. ‘Thank you. But it is you who have made it beautiful, not I.'

Sam squirmed.

‘Now … Are you ready to begin your education?' Ketterman asked.

The young Kikuyu nodded enthusiastically.

‘Very well.'

Ketterman started at the beginning, opening the camera and pointing out the various components and their part in the process of forming an image.

By the time the drum sounded to announce the evening meal, Ketterman had begun a simple description of the focus mechanism.

Sam had done extremely well and Ketterman was both pleased and impressed with his progress. The young man was clearly quite intelligent. It was another characteristic that attracted the older man to him.

Ketterman rose but Sam remained at the table, turning the camera around in his hands.

As he stood above him, Ketterman lifted his hand to pat Sam on the shoulder, but withdrew it. Ketterman was afraid he could not touch that skin, that gleaming muscular shoulder, without wanting more than he could dare imagine.

He cleared his throat and said, ‘Come on, young man. You have your dinner to attend and so do I. Tomorrow you will see how to make use of a camera to capture a wild animal on film.'

As Bill Hungerford led his safari through the Loita Hills, to the Trans Mara and finally on to the Serengeti Plains, Sam's knowledge of the technical requirements of photography grew until Ira was able to delegate much of the routine work to him, leaving him free to concentrate on the creative side of his growing collection of wildlife scenes. Ira could relax and enjoy his hobby, but in other ways, every day was a struggle.

Ira tried to avoid Sam as much as possible, thereby reducing the relentless temptation of his presence, but it wasn't practical. He should never have chosen the young African as his assistant.

Having Sam nearby was a blessing and a curse. The blessing was the feast Sam's body gave to his eye; the curse was the effort it required to keep from casually brushing against him while passing in the close confines of the tent, or letting his hand linger on the burnished brown skin of Sam's shoulder after giving him a congratulatory pat for a task well done.

If the attraction had been merely physical, if it were only Sam's firm body and wide smile — a smile that made everyone within his orbit want to share whatever joy had prompted it — then Ira might have been able to put the emotion aside as mere lust. If it had been only his gentleness and kindness, then Ira might have simply been appreciative, but Sam had the characteristic so highly valuable in men of any race — intelligence.

Ira felt that beauty was a waste if the body was essentially an empty shell. It was intelligence that added the lustre to beauty; it was the stimulant to conversation. It was an enquiring mind, not mere good looks, that brought personalities into alignment.

He had managed to avoid temptation for the last two months on safari, and now there were only a couple of weeks remaining before he could retreat from Sam's influence.

As Hungerford found more and more exciting scenes for his cameras to capture, Ira's ambitions climbed to new heights. His collection of wildlife pictures had the potential to become a successful commercial venture, but now he wondered about entering the nascent movie business on his return to New York or to even go west to where some of the movie companies had set up operations in a little place called Hollywood.

The footage he'd captured to date was interesting and technically competent, but if it were to become a movie, Ira knew he needed a dramatic finale.

He explained his ideas to Hungerford, who at first would not consider it. Ira persisted and the white hunter eventually conceded, although with the condition that he could not be held responsible if a man chose to engage wild animals in such a manner holding naught but a camera for his protection.

 

Ali was in one of his notorious moods. During the morning march he stormed up and down the line of porters, verbally lashing them for indolence.

Sam was no longer required to act as a
pagazi
, his work now confined to driving the wagon carrying Ira's equipment. So when they stopped to rest at the height of the day, he went looking for his friend Kitunga, whom he had not seen for a day or so.

He found him among a group of porters watching Ali continue his harassment of a handful of men who Kitunga said had earlier displeased the head man. Ali had them carrying the heavy water canisters from one of the wagons to be refilled at the spring.

‘It is not right,' Kitunga told Sam as they watched the men struggle from the waterhole. ‘We use the oxen to take the canisters. Not men. And the noon time is for rest. These men cannot carry water, and then their loads until evening, if they work so hard at this time.'

‘They are all new men,' Sam noted. ‘Two of them from my village. Ali knows he can push them harder than the others.'

‘You are correct, my friend. The older men would not stand for it, and Ali knows it.'

‘I believe Ali is a man who likes to push people around. Nobody can respect such a man. I will speak to him.'

Kitunga put a hand on his arm. ‘There is one thing I have learned in my time as a
pagazi
, and that is to let others look after themselves. There is no need to interfere. When the white hunter hears about this, he will have something to say to Ali. Leave it.'

The notion didn't sit well with Sam, but in deference to his friend's request, he let it be.

Not so later in the day. Sam was helping two of his tribesmen erect Ira's tent. Ali pushed one of them, who had blocked his path, to the ground.

When the young porter rose to complain, Ali smashed the back of his hand across his face, knocking him to the ground again.

Ali gave him a sharp kick in the ribs. ‘Get up, you lazy Kikuyu. Get up or I'll give you something more to think about.' He raised his furled whip.

Sam grabbed his arm.

Ali swung towards him, staring in surprise, but his surprise quickly turned to rage. With a roar he threw Sam from him and unfurled his rhino-hide whip.

Sam ducked under Ali's raised arm and grabbed the head man around the midriff, but Ali was also quite powerful and again broke Sam's grip. As he stepped back he flicked Sam on the shoulder with his lash.

Sam lowered his head and charged into Ali's torso, knocking him backwards to the ground, making him gasp.

The two men rolled in the dust, each trying to gain the advantage.

A loud explosion ended the scuffle.

Bill Hungerford stood in the circle of porters, his handgun raised.

‘Get up,' he said. ‘Get up, the pair of you.'

He looked from one man to the other. ‘You,' he said to Sam. ‘I knew you young bloods would get up to mischief.' Turning to his head man, he said, ‘Ali, what have you got to say?'

‘This stupid Kikuyu,' Ali snarled, pointing at Sam, ‘he attacked me. Leave him to me, Mr Hungerford, I will see to him.'

‘Thank you, Ali, but I'll be the one to take care of any punishment hereabouts.'

‘I'm not sure any punishment is deserved, Mr Hungerford.'

It was Ira, who had pressed his way through the crowd of spectators to speak.

‘Is that so, Mr Ketterman?' Hungerford said, then turned to the crowd of porters. ‘You lot! Go on! Get back to work. This is not a bloody circus. Ali, you stay.'

He turned back to Ira. ‘What say you, Mr Ketterman?'

‘I saw it all,' Ira continued. ‘Your head man is a bully, sir. He was about to thrash one of the young porters for no apparent reason, and Sam here simply restrained his arm. No more than Christian charity would demand.'

Hungerford smiled. ‘Christian charity, is it? Well, that would be a laugh; but what have you to say to that, Ali?'

‘Is it not the
bwana
's orders to keep discipline?' Ali said, glaring at Hungerford from under bushy eyebrows. ‘This man was insolent.'

‘Hmm …' Hungerford said, turning back to Ira. ‘We have a problem, Mr Ketterman. Even if, as you say, my man is a bully, I cannot condone insolence. I have to maintain discipline among the men, otherwise we will have the devil's own trouble.' He rubbed his chin. ‘Well, this young buck's your man, Mr Ketterman. Can you keep him out of trouble in the future?'

‘I can. Sam has been very helpful to me, and has not caused any trouble thus far. You can leave the matter in my hands.'

‘Very well, then. That's the end of it. Ali, back to work.'

Before the head man retreated, he gave Sam a lingering, malicious look.

Hungerford waited until he was out of earshot.

‘When I asked you to keep your man out of trouble, Mr Ketterman, I wasn't referring to his behaviour.'

‘No? Then what do you mean?'

‘I mean that you should keep him away from my head man. From what I've observed, he's not a man to be angered. More than one has come to a bloody end after tangling with Swahili Ali.'

 

Ira dabbed the tincture on Sam's lacerated shoulder.

‘Sorry, my boy,' he said as Sam pulled back in surprise. ‘I should have warned you.'

‘What is it?' Sam asked, looking at the yellow stain on his brown skin.

‘It's iodine. To prevent infection.'

As usual, Sam wanted to know all about iodine and infection.

When Ira had answered his questions, Sam asked one more: ‘How do you know so much?'

Ira smiled as he peeled a strip of plaster from its roll. ‘I don't know. Some things are learned without ever knowing how one learns them.' He placed the plaster over the strip of gauze on Sam's shoulder. ‘Surely you are the same. For instance, yesterday we came upon a green mamba. I thought it was trying to get away from us, but you pulled me back just in time. How did you know it was about to strike?'

‘I thought everyone knew: when the mamba slides to the side like that, it means it wants to bite.'

‘I certainly didn't know.'

‘Hmm … then I must have learned from someone; maybe it was my grandfather.'

‘Then I have you or your grandfather to thank.'

Sam gently touched the plaster. ‘Iodine. Where did you learn of iodine?'

‘Maybe at university. I can't remember.'

‘What is university?'

Ira told him about New York University and of his studies in engineering that eventually led him to work in the exciting new motor vehicle industry. He wondered why the interminable questions never became annoying, but Sam was a sponge, absorbing information in an effortless stream.

His recollections of NYU brought back memories of meeting his wife at an inter-varsity basketball game.

‘You are married?' Sam asked.

‘
Was
married. A long time ago.'

The conversation drifted into a discussion on divorce.

His wife, Ruth, didn't want a divorce. She couldn't understand why Ira wasn't content with their lives. She reminded him that they had stuck together through the lean years, but now, just as their life was becoming more comfortable, he wanted out of their marriage.

It had been a very painful period for both of them. More so for Ruth as Ira couldn't explain that, in his mind, the marriage had been a fake.

Ira seldom spoke about those painful times with anyone, but he opened up to Sam. Soon he realised he had burdened the young man with too much of his misery, but there was only compassion in his new friend's eyes. The empathy was touching and very unsettling for Ira. He was drawn almost irresistibly to reach for Sam; to hold him.

Ira had to flee the overwhelming emotion. He made an excuse and hurried from the tent towards the camp fire.

 

Bill Hungerford sat at the fireside, a Maasai red
shuka
draped over the shoulders of his blue silk shirt, and a glass of Dewar's White Label in his hand. He was alone at the fire, but standing just beyond the throw of firelight was his ancient Kamba gun bearer, Kazimoto, there to keep a watchful eye over Hungerford, as he had done for the past seventeen years.

Ira Ketterman came stumbling from the shadows.

‘Mr Ketterman. Good evening to you.'

‘Oh, Mr Hungerford. Good evening.'

‘Out to catch some air before bed, is it?'

‘What? Oh, yes. That is, no. I thought I'd warm myself for a spell before retiring with my book.'

‘Fine idea. Would you care for a drop of scotch to keep off the chill?'

Ketterman stared at the bottle for a long moment. ‘Scotch, yes. That would be useful. Yes, it would.'

Hungerford fished a glass from his chop-box and poured him a generous portion.

‘Thank you,' Ketterman said, taking a seat on a log opposite.

The two men sipped whisky in silence.

‘We have only about a week remaining here in the Serengeti before we must turn for home,' Hungerford said. ‘So, have you thought any more about your lion scene?'

‘My lion scene! Yes, I have.'

‘And are you still determined to go through with it?'

Ketterman said he was.

‘In that case, this may be our last opportunity to do it. Kazimoto has found a good many lions not far from here. They're in scattered scrub, but there are clearings where you might be able to take some good shots with your cameras.'

‘Excellent. When do we start?'

‘We could try tomorrow if you wish, but I must first make sure you understand the danger involved in what you are planning.'

Ketterman nodded.

Hungerford said that in all his years as a white hunter he had seen many lion attacks, but no two were the same.

‘Sometimes they sham a retreat before making a full-blooded charge. Sometimes they lie in ambush. I have heard of a wounded lion that stalked the hunter for hours before coming in for a kill. They are smart animals, Mr Ketterman. And the most powerful killer in Africa. Faced with superior numbers, he will flee. A lion will only attack if he feels threatened or has been wounded. If we are to get the action you want for your moving pictures, I must arrange sufficient inducement for him to flee, but not so much as to make him attack. So, this is what I have been thinking we should do.'

Hungerford explained he would divide his men into three groups. Two groups would be engaged in driving the lions from their hide or resting place towards the camera. Each group would have an armed gun bearer for protection. A smaller group would remain with Hungerford.

‘This is our biggest risk. I don't like relying on gun bearers to give cover to the beaters, but I have no choice. I can only be in one
place and that will have to be with you, just in case the lion has more on his mind than escape.'

 

About mid-morning, the camera safari received good news. The trackers had found fresh lion scat not far away, and Hungerford rallied the porters to pick up the pace. It was their first positive sighting after three long days of searching with nothing in the film canisters to show for it.

Sam loped along with the camera case in one hand and the tripod slung over his shoulder, but he could see that Ira was finding the forced march difficult: he stumbled over grass tufts and sweat tumbled from under the brim of his sun helmet.